


My Sin, My Soul

by perdiccas



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Catholicism, First Time, M/M, Porn, Religious Imagery, Safer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-18
Updated: 2009-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:50:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdiccas/pseuds/perdiccas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar may 'technically' be a serial killer, but there are lines even he has qualms about crossing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Sin, My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Luke is 17. This fic deals with Sylar's conflicted feelings about being attracted to someone so much younger than himself; references to paedophilia.
> 
> Title from Nabokov's 'Lolita'
> 
> _Runner Up Best Sylar/Luke Fic (R-NC-17) at the Heroes Slash Awards Summer 2009_

Fresh from the shower with the carbolic scent of cheap soap clinging to his skin, Luke slides beneath the sheets beside him as if it is the most natural thing in the world, ignoring entirely the second, unoccupied bed in the room.

Sylar says, "Nuh-uh."

Luke smirks. "I know you want me."

Luke tilts towards him, rubbing up against him. Sylar teeters on the edge of the mattress, trapped between Luke's arching body and the space between the wall and bed.

Sylar grunts a weak protest.

Luke shakes his head. "I _know_ you want me."

He slips a mischievous hand down the front of Sylar's boxers and caresses what he finds there. He coos to feel Sylar harden readily against his palm. "You can have me."

Sylar hears himself whispering _yes_ when he should have been screaming, "No!"

Now, Luke's the one who's screaming.

"Yes! Yeah, oh god, yeah! _Pleasepleaseplease_. Fuuuuck," as Sylar presses into him, long and slow and deep, trying to shut out a voice that's low enough but hitching higher the more excited he becomes.

Sylar curls around him, seated all the way inside. His breath is haggard in Luke's ear as he rests against Luke's shoulder, and Sylar tries not to focus on those cheeks that are too smooth, free from stubble without a razor's help.

He wants to ignore the sparse, fine hair barely there on Luke's narrow chest; the baby fat that still rounds out his jaw and softens his slender waist; that pale skin as white as Sylar's, still marred by a hint of acne on his chin that's nonetheless flawless where Sylar's is roughed up around the edges with the scars of a life experienced. And most of all, Sylar tries to ignore the way his cock _aches_ inside an ass so tight it can't be anything but virginal, because Luke says he's old enough but Luke says a lot of bullshit and he's gotten worryingly adept at crafting answers that sidestep Sylar's lie-detecting power.

_I swear, Your Honour, he said he was eighteen._

Sylar shudders and Luke moans. The kid (_oh fuck, he's just a kid_) is too caught up in being stretched and filled and finally fucked to notice anything amiss. Sylar may be a monster to many, but this is the first time he has made his own skin crawl.

It doesn't matter that Luke has started it (although he _did_) and it doesn't matter that Luke has pushed it (although he _has_). He should have said no and he should have said stop and it doesn't matter which side of barely legal Luke's ass (_so tight, so tight, so fucking tight_) falls on when he's being truthful, because there's no way around how sick and wrong this is. Sylar may live by a looser moral code than most but he's not a man who lures boys away from their mothers, diddling them in shady motels between intermittent bouts of violence. And yet, here he is, balls-deep in Luke's battered ass (_sick, sick degenerate_).

"Oh, yeah. Yeah!" Luke's babbling. "_Mmm._ Oh god, please! Don't stop."

Sylar tries to shush him, glancing at the paper thin walls. They haven't checked in as father and son---Luke's too old and Sylar's too young---nor as mismatched brothers. "Twin room; paying in cash," is all he'd said, raising a haughty eyebrow to the clerk's suspicious glare. It had been funny then to speculate exactly what kind of pervert the clerk had thought himself taking money from but it's infinitely less humorous, now, when Sylar is in the midst of maybe just proving him right.

"Jesus, fuck, you feel so big."

Sylar would be flattered but Luke's said that already many times before, holding Sylar in his palm and in his mouth, at the touch of Sylar's mouth to his ass and at the slide of slippery fingers inside him. "So big," seems to be a relative term that Luke thinks covers everything from the point of Sylar's tongue to the heft of his cock and Sylar's stomach lurches at the thought that maybe everything _is_ "so big" when compared to nothing at all.

Luke's pressing at his belly, kneading his cramping muscles and Sylar thinks that Luke's so tight that he couldn't pull out yet even if he wanted to. He slides his hand up Luke's trembling thigh, skimming over his hip to settle low on his abdomen, rubbing deftly at all the places that hurt.

The quick brush of Sylar's knuckles along his cock is all it takes for Luke to come.

At least he's finally quiet.

He inhales sharply, his back arching, pressing his sweat damp shoulders to Sylar's chest. His forehead drops to the pillows, cradled in arms now too weak to hold his weight as his spine curves and the small of his back sticks flush to Sylar's stomach.

Sylar's reflexes are quick and he fists Luke as his cock throbs.

Semen splatters on the sheets below, coating Sylar's palm as he strokes Luke down with ever slicker caresses. Luke exhales a sigh and groan in one, breath shaking as he gasps. Sylar brushes his clean hand up Luke's spine, feeling out the notches below soft flesh. Then his fingers are winding upwards over shoulder blades that shift contentedly with his touch and sweeping across the back of Luke's neck, wiping aside the sheen of sweat to let Sylar plant a kiss at the base of his skull.

Luke turns his head to the side, eyes fluttering open to glance back at Sylar. His pupils are blown wide and his face is slack, utterly dazed from his orgasm.

"Sorry," Luke groans.

(_No, I'm sorry. So sorry. This is sick_).

Sylar kisses his cheek softly, leaning in to smell the obscene scent of sex on skin that seems too soft and young to carry it. And when Luke brings his hand up to lazily stroke Sylar's hair, he allows it for a moment longer than he really should.

Then, he clears his throat and straightens up, kneeling tall as he yanks Luke's pliant body towards him by the waist.

Sylar fucks him hard. Purpling marks fan out on Luke's pale skin where Sylar's fingers press, latched to the ridge of his hips with a fierce, possessive grip. Already, Sylar cannot look anywhere but at the wall ahead of him. He doesn't want to glance down and have to face the bruising stamp of ownership that will mark Luke as his for days to come.

He ploughs in rougher still, unable to stop the animalistic grunts forced from him in time to the heave of his breath and the thrust of his hips. The clap of skin to skin and gritted teeth is deafening. It fills the room with a carnal symphony sure to become the soundtrack to his future masturbatory fantasies.

He wrenches Luke towards himself with every in-stroke, scrabbling for some kind of absolution in the illusion that Luke is fucking him as much as he is being fucked. He half expects some form of protest, some flippant remark about how Luke _knew_ that Sylar wanted him all along (_it's true, it's true, oh god, I did_) but all Luke does is gasp and groan as Sylar's movements wring out his aftershocks for far longer than the touch of his own palm ever has.

"Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh _fuck_!" Luke grunts.

It's wrong, so wrong and Sylar feels half-gagged with guilt. He's the goddamn Boogieman, the stuff of nightmares personified and even _he_ knows that this is far beyond the pale of anything he's done before.

Luke's not in pain, though he almost sounds it, and in some twisted way, Sylar thinks this might sit better with him if he were. Fear and violence and blood are things he knows, things that he has learned to deal with. But this is sticky and visceral in an entirely different way, in a way that he cannot justify with claims of evolution. On his palm, Luke's spunk is drying, gluing his skin to Luke's thigh as Luke reaches blindly back for him, urging on his own defilement.

Then, Luke is rising up on his hands and knees, _willingly_ swaying back and forth with the punishing pace that Sylar has set, moaning, "Yeah," like a whore who knows her livelihood depends on her performance. And Sylar thinks desperately that this is not his fault. He's not a monster and he's not a god, not yet, he's a man who's not quite mortal and there's only so much temptation that he can resist.

When Luke flexes the muscles of his ass, pulling Sylar's cock in deeper and clamping down hotter than the virgin tightness that already engulfs him, Sylar knows that he's been broken.

Sylar comes with a strangled sob, biting his fist and clawing at Luke's back, forcing him to take penance for what they've done. Every shiver of pleasure that rattles through him is echoed by a scalding flash of shame. Sylar pulls out, too rough and too quick, making Luke hiss as he drops his grip on his hips. Luke falls face-first onto the sheets they've soiled and rolls over, stretching hedonistically, not caring that he's wallowing in their mess.

Sylar hauls the condom from his dick, tying it off with shaking hands and flinging it from himself, not caring if it reaches the trash. And with it gone, there's a brief respite in the nauseated churning in his gut and he frantically thinks that with the evidence buried it can be as if he has never given in. But, Luke reaches for Sylar and Sylar finds he's leaning into him with equal parts eagerness and self-recrimination, just as he had before he let himself indulge. Luke clutches at his biceps with hands stained as near enough with death as his, but looks at him with eyes that still naively hope that sex and love have anything in common (_Forgive me, please forgive me. I didn't mean to ruin you_).

Luke drags him down, and Sylar thinks that there isn't much lower that he can sink. Then, Luke is pressing tiny, ticklish kisses around his mouth and licking shyly at the corners of Sylar's lips as he cups the back of Sylar's neck to hold him close. When Sylar can finally find the strength to face his sins and meet his gaze, Luke whispers, hoarsely, "It's ok."

Sylar turns away and bites his tongue to keep at bay the hysterical laughter gurgling in his chest.

"You didn't hurt me. It felt good. I wanted that--"

"Shut up!" Sylar snaps. He flops on his back and turns his face away. To be comforted by his victim is a new perversity that Sylar has never considered.

There's a deathly silence and Sylar finds that he's hoping cruelly that Luke will cry. Because tears are weak and weakness he can rightfully cast aside, dumping Luke on some street corner to fend for himself as best he can. But Sylar's damnation will not be so easily cowed.

"Not one for pillow talk, huh?" Luke says and Sylar almost lets himself ignore the quaver in his voice. He's loud and brash, and full of false bravado that Sylar suddenly finds he hasn't the stomach to strip from him, not after all else that he has ripped from Luke tonight.

So, when Luke's arm folds around his middle and he rests his head upon Sylar's chest, those hot, sweet lips peppering kisses around his nipple and over his heart, every breath ruffling Sylar's chest hair, Sylar merely grunts in despair and telekinetically shuts off the lights, the better to mask their sins.

In the darkened room with his eyes squeezed shut against his disgrace, Sylar pets Luke's hair and feels him whisper, "S'good," against his neck. Sylar listens to Luke's breath grow slow and languid as he sleeps, every snuffling snore he makes pressing his chest to Sylar's side. Where their bodies lie close against each other, Sylar's skin prickles with the burning, sweltering heat that seems trapped in the sliver of space between them. It sears him worse than the brand of any scarlet letter.

There should be fire and brimstone, and sulphur in the air, but there's nothing except the click of the central heating and sheets that rustle when Luke shifts. Sylar's filled with rage, angry at himself and angry at Luke for making him feel as if he is losing all control. He's tainted like he hasn't been since blood first become his holy water and the screams of death his hymns. So, Sylar bites his lip hard in some meagre form of self-flagellation and _prays_, like he hasn't prayed since he fell to his knees with Brian Davis' blood smeared across his palms. And, even as he pleads to a God he doesn't believe in for forgiveness he doesn't believe he deserves, Sylar curls his arms around Luke's sleeping form and cuddles the asp closer to his breast.

(_Ave Maria_).


End file.
